


Calculation

by autobotscoutriella



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon, Strategy & Tactics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 00:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20555213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autobotscoutriella/pseuds/autobotscoutriella
Summary: Technically, building a new base should be downtime for everyone but the construction mechs--but as far as Prowl's concerned, there's no time like the present to analyze all the ways something could go wrong.





	Calculation

**Author's Note:**

> Based on, but heavily edited from, [this post](https://fandomweekly.dreamwidth.org/242374.html)\--I wrote it for Fandomweekly originally, and then decided I didn't like the original and made some edits.

The brand-new command center hummed with activity. Junior officers and a few rank and file soldiers grouped into every corner, organizing weapons racks, linking internal comms to the planetary network, and all the other minor tasks required to keep things running smoothly; behind the transparisteel window and heavy black wall that marked out the briefing room, the Prime’s hulking silhouette could be identified, along with those of Ratchet and Hot Rod. Jazz's voice was audible at the far end of the open central space, laughter in his tone as he described a construction mishap to Ironhide.

It was all unsettlingly _ordinary_. Except for the heavy weaponry that hadn’t existed before the war, the operation could have been mistaken for the opening of a new Enforcer station, complete with Council visit.

Prowl took it all in with a glance and dismissed it all just as quickly, noting the position of each figure, their likely patterns of movement, and congested areas that might pose a problem. The topics of conversation barely registered for more than a second.

From the left wall, all four exits were visible, three heavy reinforced doors and one nearly-invisible gap concealed in the layers of metal plating that made up the outer wall. With twenty-two—no, twenty-three now—soldiers, any single exit could become blocked too easily. He gestured at the nearest mech. “Move that weapons rack three-point-five yards back.”

There were twenty-two different scenarios that could play out under the current conditions, some dangerous, some not. Under different circumstances, he might have been listing off those scenarios for the Prime, keeping them two or three steps ahead of the approaching Decepticons. Now, it was little more than constant background noise, a hum of reassuring practicality ready to be accessed on a moment’s notice.

"Hey, mech. Where's your head?"

Jazz was at his elbow, silver plating practically glowing in the dim artificial light, visor casually retracted to reveal amused optics. "Patrol’s been out for thirty kliks now. If the 'Cons so much as twitch our direction, we'll see it coming. Cool it with the tactical reruns, will ya?”

Prowl raised a brow, attention shifting to the two soldiers moving the weapons rack for a brief second before refocusing on Jazz. “And here I thought you had finally remembered I can’t. We’ve had this conversation."

"And we're gonna have it again." Jazz followed Prowl's gaze to the window and back. "'Cause every time we do, I ask you if it's that you _can't_ turn it off, or that you _won't_. And every time, you tell me—"

"—that it doesn’t matter," Prowl finished, a faint smile flicking across his faceplate even as he considered the best way to defend against an aerial strike, assuming the Prime remained in the command center. "We’ve needed those protocols unexpectedly online more times than I particularly care to count.”

Jazz heaved an overdramatic sigh and waved an arm at their surroundings. "Don't tell me you think you need them _now_. _You_ made the patrol schedule and did the tactical overview on the base design, so if that ain’t enough for you—"

“I’m confident both are adequate." Green and black shimmered in the corner of Prowl's visor; Ratchet left the briefing room in a hurry. The numbers ran with and without him and adjusted accordingly. "But the protocols continue to run, adequate planning and base design or not. Further discussion makes no difference to that.”

"How'd you ever survive peacetime, mech?" There was no venom in the comment, only incredulity. Prowl smiled inwardly and watched Hot Rod leave, taking a handful of rank and file soldiers with him.

The calculations adjusted for the fifteen mechs currently in the command center, eliminating five possibilities and opening up three more. Prowl considered the layout again, analyzing the possibility of removing one weapons rack entirely and replacing it with a second reinforcement wall on the south side. An extra layer of metal between the south wall and the briefing room might cut down the risk of an attack taking out large numbers of—

“Will you _relax?_” Jazz tapped him with an elbow, jerking Prowl’s attention back to the present. “This is downtime, or as close to it as we’re gonna get this week. Everything’s under control. Whatever ya did with those protocols before the war, give it a shot now.”

“That is _exactly_ what I’m doing.” Behind Jazz, a series of glowing holoscreens came to life across the west wall. Once the monitor stations were linked to the planetary network, the base would be fully operational. “I observed, I planned, and I modified those plans based on changing evidence. And yes, the protocols remained online at all times then.”

“Ever think maybe that’s overkill?” Jazz tapped out a rhythm Prowl didn’t recognize on his forearm, a sure sign he was reconsidering something. “Sounds like hell at parties.”

“That depends on the type of party,” Prowl said dryly, suppressing any hint of a smile until amused resignation flashed through Jazz’s EM field.

“Remind me never to show up to anything you’re hosting.” Jazz grinned and clapped Prowl on the shoulder. “Don’t calculate so hard you break something. We’ll need your protocols tomorrow.”

Prowl suppressed the urge to remark that calculating now was necessary to face whatever tomorrow might bring, and watched Jazz make his way through the maze of half-constructed weapons racks into the briefing room. The Prime’s silhouette turned to face him, a monitor screen flickering to life on the back wall.

_Sounds like hell._

Though he would never admit it, Jazz wasn’t entirely wrong.

Before the war, his tactical protocols _had_ been serious overkill. Even the most out-of-control Kaonite gladiatorial match had never required the levels of calculation his processor offered on a moment-by-moment basis—and in Praxus, there had been no need for any tactics beyond basic shift scheduling. It had wreaked havoc on his social life, and hadn’t been particularly applicable anywhere else. He had considered having them deactivated, or removed entirely—though never for long.

But that had been before the war.

Once, he might have considered a forced shutdown on the protocols; it was _possible_, if unpleasant initially. But now?

Now, a shutdown might cost lives, and every loss dragged the war out just a little bit longer. The inconvenience was irrelevant now.

Prowl turned his attention back to the walkways, and the problem of clearing the weapons racks away from the entrances while keeping all weapons quickly accessible. In ten of the current eighteen potential scenarios, blocked exits or jammed weapons would prove fatal to someone.

_Let’s see if we can get that number down to single digits._


End file.
